


just let me love you

by plinys



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Compliant, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 19:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20729267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: “You know this whole soulmate thing is pretty fucked up when you really think about it.”[Or: A soulmate au in which everyone has a tattoo of the last words your soulmate ever says to you, and Richie's got the words "I fucked your mother" on his arm for the entire world to see.]





	just let me love you

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to the friends that bullied me into going to watch the scary clown movie and didn't warn me that i'd be crying by the end of it

The water burns too hot against his skin, as if blistering hot water will make the words marked onto his forearm suddenly disappear. It won’t, they both know this, and yet here he is with his arm under the hot spray of the kitchen skin, dish soap being scrubbed against his change as though it might somehow change his fate.

Of all the words to have.

Of all the things of his soulmate to say. 

Richie’s not as surprised as he could be, he was nine the first time his mother sat him down to wash his mouth out with soap after one too many ‘fucks’ were dropped at the dinner table, so it would be only fitting that his soulmate would have a similar vocabulary. 

But there was a difference between saying it and having the word  _ fucked  _ tattooed on his arm for the entire world to see. 

If fate was going to gift him with such  _ fun  _ soulmate tattoo, the least the universe could have done would be to put those words in a place that was less visible. 

Richie tries to jerk his arm away from his mother’s iron grip when the hot water starts to become too much, “I’m not the one that fucking says it,” Richie says, twisting his arm back and forth in an attempt to free himself. “Get mad at my fucking soulmate not me.” 

That seems to slacken her grip, enough that Richie is able to tug his arm free, slinking down to sit on the floor, his back pressed to the kitchen cabinets, the distant sound of the water running in the background and the steady beating of his heart enough to bring him back to his senses. 

His arm is red, tender to the touch from being scrubbed at too much, as if the words were marker that could be erased, not just the proof that somewhere out there in the universe there is a soulmate for him. 

He knows that he needs to get up, to get ready for school, to get ready to listen to his friends teasing comments about his soulmate mark finally appearing, but for a second all he can do is sit there on the ground eyes blurry (having lost his glasses early in the fight to clean off his arm) slightly as he stares at his birthday breakfast, meant to celebrate him finally becoming a teenager, and instead feels a sense of emptiness inside of him. 

It’s not the words.

Not really.

He sort of likes them, how crude and terrible they are.

Typical of a  _ trashmouth  _ like him. 

But it’s his soulmate, somewhere out there. 

It’s the implication, of the sort of person that would deliver these words, not the sort of demure girl that his parents keep trying to steer Richie in the direction of. The sort of  _ girl  _ that Richie would try time and time to convince himself that he could be happy with, that his gaze could linger on soft curses, instead of strong muscles and- 

“Fuck,” he hisses out, squeezing his eyes shut, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Language Richard,” his mother reminds him.

But he isn’t listening.

Because the implication is right there.

And if he’s being honest with himself, there’s something familiar, and something distinctly  _ male  _ about the handwriting on his arm. Something that would never be accepted in a place like Derry. 

It almost makes him wish for a second that the water had been actually been able to wash the words away. 

He could almost forget that his mother was still there, she’s turned the water off, moved to busy herself about the kitchen as if this morning’s  _ incident  _ hadn’t happened, but when she speaks, Richie’s eyes shoot back open. “Plenty of people have  _ platonic  _ soulmates, a friendship that is meant to define them, not a love, you can still be normal.”

_ Normal _ .

He’s never fucking been normal. 

This was just proof of that. 

He doesn’t answer her.

But really he doesn’t have to. 

“Why don’t you change into a sweatshirt?”

*

He gives up on the long sleeves a few weeks later, tired of dodging his friends questions, tired of sweltering in the heat as winter turns into spring.

Richie pretends not to notice the way his friends eyes all linger a bit too long on his forearm, the words ‘ _ I fucked your mother _ ’ stand our starkly in black ink against his pale skin, the first day he finally shows up with his soulmate tattoo on display. Or the way one set of eyes seem to linger even longer. 

It’s easier to focus on the taunts at school, the way Bowers and his gang seem to feel so tough spitting Richie’s words back at him, as if it’s suddenly the greatest joke in the entire fucking world. 

At least, it’s better than some of the other things they call him. 

And anyways, soon there’s missing kids and a killer clown for them to focus on and a summer made up of nightmares so much worse than whatever dumb words are inked into his skin by fate. 

*

“You know this whole soulmate thing is pretty fucked up when you really think about it.” 

They’re all in the clubhouse, everyone else looking pretty fucking dumb with one of Stan’s shower caps on their heads, pausing in the midst of badgering Eddie, the youngest of them and therefore the last of them to get his soulmate tattoo into revealing what it says. 

It’s only Richie’s words that get them all to stop, six other heads turning to look his way to where he’s sprawled out in the hammock with a comic book propped up in his lap. 

“I don’t know,” Bev insists. “It’s sort romantic.” 

“Not everyone’s soulmate has to be romantic,” Richie replies, quickly, defensively, because fuck he can’t-

“I didn’t mean-”

“Whatever,” he waves his hand off. Focusing his gaze on Eddie, he continues. “It’s fucked up. I mean, every person in the universe out there living with someone else’s last words tattooed on their fucking body forever. Not even actually knowing who your soulmate is until they’re dead. That’s fucked up.” 

“That’s just the way the world is,” Bev insists. As if Richie hasn’t heard those exact words before. He rolls his eyes pretending to go back to his comic book but the conversation has been struck. “And it’s not as if you never know, you can tell by the handwriting.” 

Oh, doesn’t he  _ know _ .

He gets it, why Bev is sentimental. She hasn’t said as much, but her eyes linger on Bill as she says those words, as if someone the words on her body match a hand writing that she knows well enough. 

He doesn’t ask.

There’s technically a taboo against asking.

It’s impolite to ask about someone else's soulmate tattoo.

Unless they’re in some overly visible place like a forearm. 

He knows most of the other guys tattoos. 

Mike’s a simple  _ goodnight _ on his palm. 

Bill’s a whole paragraph of words wrapping around his thigh. 

Stan’s telling him not to leave the water running. 

He doesn’t know what Ben’s is, but he’s sure that they’ll all find out sooner rather than later.

Which means despite the general taboo, the fact that Eddie didn’t pull up his shirt or whatever to show of his soulmate mark when all their friends turned to badger him, either means it’s something as telling as Richie’s or it’s in some inappropriate place. 

“So what is it then, Eds, your words on your fucking dick or something,” Richie taunts, “Didn’t know they made soulmate marks small enough to fit down there, guess you soulmate must have some dainty fucking handwriting.” 

He doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s voice rises up in pitch, more defensive than his usual for some reason, “Fuck you, and your fucking mother too.”

“Ha ha very fucking original.” 

Eddie’s eye roll isn’t charming.

Nothing about him fucking charming.

Not now.

It can never be. 

But Richie’s chest feels just a little bit tighter when Eddie stalks over his way, “Get off the fucking hammock, it’s my birthday.” 

He doesn’t move.

Stubborn as ever. 

Plus the two of them fit on the hammock comfortably enough, with some minor shoving as they both refuse to let the other get even close to comfortable.

It’s only once the rest of their friends turn to discuss something else, Richie going back to his comic book and doing his best to forget whose hand has settled against his thigh as if it belongs there. 

Until a slight squeeze makes it impossible for him to forget, and Richie looks up over the edge of the latest issue of Spiderman to level a glare in Eddie’s direction, until four words weaken his resolve, “It is fucked up.” 

*

They’re tangled up in the hammock bickering, not for the first time and probably not for the last. 

Richie kicks out his foot, landing one smack against Eddie’s cheek, not enough to hurt, but enough to piss him off. Eddie’s voice doesn’t squeak anymore when they do this, just lets out an unamused noise, and tries to show Richie off.

“Fuck you.” 

“I fucked your mom,” Eddie replies. 

The words easy.

A familiar tease at this point. 

It’s become a joke.

A defense mechanism.

Richie saying his own words before people can say them back and Eddie picks up on it because he’s a little shit, they both are, teasing each other back and forth, like they always had been for years, but it’s different now. Each passing day carrying just a little more weight and a little less fire. 

He can’t help the way his head leaps just a little in his chest whenever Eddie says the words, even if they aren’t  _ quite  _ right. 

He knocks his knee against Eddie’s pointedly. “One of these days you’re going to say those words and then you’re going to fucking die, and whose fault will that be?” 

Eddie grins back at him, like this is all one big joke, like that’s all that this will ever be, and replies, “Yours probably.” 

*

“You’re leaving Derry?”

He says words, like they’re not really a question. More of a statement. They both knew that this was inevitable, all of them would be going their separate ways, off to colleges or just towns that aren’t haunted by the ghosts of their pasts.

The thought of staying here after graduation hadn’t really crossed Richie’s mind, not even for an instant. He couldn’t stay here, not in this homophobic nightmare of a town. He couldn’t stay here and watch Eddie too closely and feel just that little hint of jealousy take home in his chest every time Eddie tries to talk with another girl that is way out of his league, fearing that finally one of them will give him and chance and Richie will just have to-

“Everyone else is staying for the summer,” Eddie continues. “Our last summer together.” 

The implication that  _ he  _ is staying for the summer all to clear. 

“Yeah, I can’t fucking do that,” Richie says, not looking up from where he’s packing up his things. If he looks up, his resolve just might break. 

He almost wished that he had told his mom not to let anyone up to say goodbye. That his half farewell wish to all of them the night before after graduation could have been misunderstood long enough for him to get out of town without anythone thinking too long about what exactly he was implying. 

“Richie…” 

“I’m thinking of going to New York for a bit,” Richie says, forcing himself to talk. Never been the one to like awkward silences. The heavy implications between them. The elephant in the room. “Then maybe LA. If you ever make it out of fucking Maine you could come visit me.”

This would usually be when Eddie would make some smart retort call him a fuckface or whatever, but for once Eddie is silent.

Richie would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel it.

An ache in his chest, in his fucking  _ soul _ .

People always said soulmate’s weren’t meant to stray apart. 

But nobody ever said anything about what to do when you’re in love with your best friend but he can’t love you back. 

So they don’t say anything.

And Richie turns back to packing.

Does his best to focus on putting what little mementos of his childhood he wants to hang onto, and pretends he doesn’t notice the way Eddie moves around his room like he owns the place, until he settles on the yearbook that’s still sitting on Richie’s nightstand. 

“You already signed it,” Richie says, dropping his attempt at indifference when he sees Eddie pick up a pen. 

“I’m adding something,” Eddie replies. It doesn’t seem to take him long, maybe just a few words, but he purposely tilts the book away from Richie’s view and when he finishes he snaps the yearbook shut, moving over to the box that Richie is packing up and sliding it down along the side. “You can’t check it until you get to New York, promise me?” 

“The fuck did you write,” Richie replies, reaching out for the book, only to have his hand slapped away.

“Promise me.” 

He’s stubborn.

He fully intends to open the book back up the second Eddie leaves, but for a moment he looks determined enough that Richie relents, bringing his pinky up to link it with Eddie’s sealing a promise that he doesn’t really mean. 

Hating himself a little when Eddie’s satisfied smile sets off the butterflies in his stomach that Richie has spent years trying to ignore.

“Now, let me help you pack up this fucking mess.”

*

He forgets about the yearbook. 

Gets so busy in New York, waiting tables and rushing between various open mic nights hoping just to get  _ noticed  _ by the right people, that he never actually has time to completely unpack. Not for months and months later until he’s looking for something and ends up finally cutting into the last four boxes that have been stacked up in the corner of his tiny Brooklyn apartment for ages.

He forgets about whatever it was that he was looking for when pushing aside the contents of the fourth box he finds the familiar yearbook  _ Derry High School _ tucked against the side, between a desk lamp that he no longer has any need for and some comic books. 

Richie moves on autopilot, tugging the book open, flipping to the back, to the pages that he had saved just for the Losers, for the entire fucking page that Eddie had written for him. Too many words to fit into just one page. He’s read all of these words before. Read them all that night after graduation.

But there’s four words that are new.

Written in a different pen, the sharpie that had been on his nightstand, the words dark and think against the white yearbook page. 

The words identical in every way to the words that have been on his forearm since he was fourteen years old.

Eddie Kaspbrak’s fucking handwriting spelling out:  _ I fucked your mother _ . 

He laughs.

The sound tearing out of his chest.

Replacing the ache that had been in there, in his  _ soul  _ for all those months since he left Derry, with something else.

He knew. 

Of course, he always fucking knew.

They both knew but we’re too stubborn to say anything when there had been a chance to but he knew.

He’s been in love with Eddie for half his life, of course, he would fucking know who his soulmate is. 

This just confirms it. 

*

It’s been years since he’s wanted those words to go away.

But for the first time since he was thirteen years old, he turns the water up until the heat of it burns at his skin, and scrubs at his arm with a bar of soap, as if it might change everything. 

As if the words might finally disappear, leaving him in peace.

As if somehow the universe might decide that he deserves something close to a happy ending. 

As if maybe one day he could be over this fucking unrequited crush. 

In the end all he is left with is skin the burns too hot and a feeling for emptiness somehwere deep inside his chest, inside his  _ fucking  _ soul, as he pours himself a post shower glass of scotch and tries to forget everything that hurts.

*

As the years pass he doesn’t remember much about Derry. 

About his childhood. 

But he remembers Eddie. 

He can’t forget Eddie no matter how much he tries. 

It doesn’t come as much of a surprise when he notices Eddie out in the audience. He’d know that face anywhere. It’s a small bar, he’s headlining open mic night. It’s nothing special. Not his big break. But he’s been coming to this same bar every Wednesday night for the last two years before he mentioned it off hand in a letter once and always thought maybe… One night. 

He’s here.

And for a second Richie forgets all his jokes when their eyes meet. 

Eddie waits for him after the show, slides up next to him at the bar, like they’re strangers, not childhood friends, and says, “Why do all your jokes fucking suck,” by way of greeting. 

He ignores the bartenders confused look, accepting his drink with a nod of thanks before turning to Eddie, “Why do you fucking suck?”

“You wish I was fucking sucking you.” 

“Is that an offer?” 

Eddie laughs. A noise that is so familiar that it brings a smile to Richie’s face.

“See my jokes don’t suck,” he says, counting Eddie’s laugh as a success, and tipping his drink Eddie’s way in a mock toast before downing it. 

The liquor stings a little on the way down, not meant to be drunk so quickly, but with Eddie here, RIchie has a feeling that he will be needing a few more drinks that usual to get through the night. 

They’ve both grown up in the last few years. College having treated Eddie well. His hair is a bit longer and for a second Richie has the dumb impulse to tangle his hand up in that hair and pull him forward. To kiss that stupid knowing smirk off his lips as Richie has wanted to for years. 

“Let me buy you a drink,” Eddie says, a peace offering almost, signalling the bartender to get them a round of shots. 

“College boy’s got some money?” 

“I’ve got a job actually,” Eddie says, “In the city.” 

“The city,” Richie echoes. 

“This city,” Eddie clarifies, as if he’s talking to a child. “New York City.”

Of course, Eddie would be moving here.

Of course, fate would finally trying to be through them back together.

Of course, it would be  _ days  _ before Richie is supposed to be moving to LA.

He downs his shot, and Eddie’s too for good measure, ignoring the disapproving look that earns him, if only so he doesn’t accidentally slip out the fact that he is about to leave and ruin the night before it’s even begun. 

“Next round is on me,” Richie says, putting his cash down on the table. 

“It better fucking be.” 

One round leads to another, and another, and he’s a little tipsy, his fingers going numb by the time they stumble out of the bar leaning a little bit too close together as Richie flags down a cab. He doesn’t know where Eddie is staying, doesn’t care for a moment, gives his address without thinking.

Because he can’t think, not when Eddie’s grip is too tight on his arm. 

He’s twenty-two but he feels like a child again, his whole body on fire, from just the  _ touch  _ of another person. 

The feeling can only last so long, because they make it out of the cab, make it up the stairs to Richie’s tiny apartment, with Eddie leaning against him the whole time, too close for these touches to be as innocent as Richie is trying to make himself believe. Forgetting for a moment that his apartment is filled with packed boxes.

He doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s expression seems to fall slightly, “Why is this sight so fucking familiar.” 

“Shut up,” Richie says. 

“Make me.” 

It’s a dumb taunt.

The sort of shit they always used to say as kids.

But it’s different now.

Everything’s fucking different.

A part of him wants to blame it all on the alcohol when he moves forward, that the impulse isn’t his own, that his soul isn’t screaming at him to cross the space between them. In the end, it doesn’t matter the reason why, because he moves, he listens to that impulse. 

He kisses Eddie.

He kisses his  _ fucking  _ soulmate.

And Eddie kisses back.

He swears in that moment he can feel the entire universe, everything that has ever been falling into place at once. Right in a way that the books and stories always said. That when soulmates finally confirmed their bond that souls would rejoice at the match as that it would make all of it worth it.

He believes it, just for a second, that knowing how their fucked up romance is going to end, could all be worth it for just this one kiss. 

A kiss that could stop time.

Until they break apart. 

There’s a small red spot against Eddie’s cheek, where Richie’s glasses had dug into his face, lips just a little bit pink and kiss swollen, and there’s this look in his eyes wild and a bit confused but he’s not pulling away.

Which is probably why Richie says something stupid like, “I’ve been waiting to do thayt for so fucking long.” 

“What?” 

“Fuck, nevermind, I fucking-” 

This time it is Eddie that kisses him, initiating the kiss, pulling Richie down to him without any hesitation, kissing as if their lives depend on it. And for a second, with the fire underneath Richie’s skin, he thinks that their lives just might. 

Eddie pulls back, not moving too far, his lips still brushing against Richie’s when he speaks, “You better not have any sexually transmitted diseases.”

“I don’t.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

Their hands find each other’s, pinkies not quite linking, but it doesn’t matter because when their hands pull away it is with purpose. Tugging layers away, in a desperate need to get more skin to skin contact, as they make their way in the general direction of Richie’s couch, too eager to try and make it towards his bed. 

It’s only then, when he’s got Eddie laying out against the couch, tugging his pants down with purpose that he sees the words he has wondered about since 1989, resting just there under the jut of Eddie’s hip, in a handwriting that Richie knows instinctively.

His own handwriting staring back at him. 

His glasses had already been knocked away but he does his best to squint down at the words, to try and focus on what it is he says, what the last words he says to Eddie will ever before, but Eddie’s hand moves to cover the mark, trapping Richie’s fingers there against him before he can finish reading them. 

And when he looks up at Eddie’s face, his eyes are shut in a look of pleasure, Richie can’t help but wonder if this is the first time he’s feeling it, feeling the great and wonderful feeling that Richie felt every time Eddie grabbed onto his arm. 

Breathless, caught up in a moment that is all too much for either of them to process. 

“Kiss me, again,” Eddie says. 

And any thought of trying to make out their last words is lost in his need to kiss those lips once more. 

  
  


*

He’s gone in the morning.

Something Richie tries not to be surprised about. 

Neither of them has ever been the type to talk about their emotions. 

And what did he fucking expect, to make breakfast in the morning, and try to pretend that they could have the same sort of happily ever after that  _ normal  _ soulmates had? 

It’s only after he’s made himself a coffee that he notices the phone number on the table. 

A number that Richie already knows he won’t call. 

*

It’s a dumb joke.

All of these jokes are dumb. 

He tells his writer this, has told that fucker plenty of times, but he accepts the cards all the same, repeats them until they sound like his own words and not the words that he is being forced to parrot back, to be a manufactured sort of funny.

The joke is an easy one to make.

He wears shortsleeves.

Everyone in LA has seen his soulmate tattoo, has laughed at the words, not with the malice that his childhood bullies used to but with humor. As if they were all in on some sort of inside joke. 

He looks out at the audience and doesn’t think about the way his arm sometimes burns, or the empty feeling in his chest that comes with the distance and says - “I call up my mom every once in a while, just to check in, saying ‘hey you fuck my soulmate yet?’”

The crowd laughs. 

But it’s an awkward stitled laugh.

The joke’s dumb, but he didn’t write it, so what does it matter in the end.

  
  


*

All it takes is a wedding invitation in the mail.

It’s been  _ years  _ since they’ve seen each other.

_ Years  _ since they’ve spoken.

But there’s a wedding invitation and he punches the number into his phone with a bit more force than necessary. 

He picks up after just two rings, and in lieu of a proper greeting, all Richie can manage is to ask - “What the fuck is this?”

There’s a long sigh from the other end of the line. Eddie not even having to ask who it is. Just knowing. “Good evening to you too, Richie. How’s the weather in LA? Warm?”

“Cut the fucking shit, Eddie.” 

“What do you want me to say?” 

Richie doesn’t know how to answer that. He wants this all to be a joke. But April Fool’s day is long since passed. And even Eddie wouldn’t be fucked up enough to make this a joke. 

“You’re getting married,” Richie says. “You’re getting married and I didn’t even know.” 

“You know now,” Eddie points out. 

“Because I got a fucking letter in the fucking mail,” Richie snaps back. “Really you couldn’t think of any better way to tell me, you couldn’t think that oh maybe Richie might like it if I-”

“We haven’t spoken in years,” Eddie says. “Myra was shocked that I was even thinking of inviting you, I’m sure you’re too busy.”

“Myra,” Richie says. Unable to hide the disgust in his tone. 

He drank a bit before coming home. A part of him wishes he could blame all of the hurt and anger he’s feeling on that. But he knows it’s so much more than that. 

“Yes, that’s her name,” Eddie replies.

He can’t see his face, but Richie can imagine it well enough. That small pinched expression that he sometimes wears. When he’s too much of a coward to admit what’s really on his mind. 

He hates this.

Hates the distance between them now more than ever. 

How had they let themselves get like this. 

“I hope she’s everything you ever hoped for,” Richie says, his tone still bitter. 

“Don’t be like this.”

“How did you imagine this conversation going down? Honestly?” 

“I don’t know maybe I imagined you’d be fucking reasonable for once.” 

Richie’s laugh is bitter, harsh and meant to hurt, “Yeah, really reasonable to find out that my…” He can’t even say the word. Can’t voice it now. Not when he feels angry enough to ignore the ever present ache in his chest.

This time when Eddie sighs through the line it is softer. Caring a small note of regret. “You know, not all soulmates have to be… like  _ that _ .” 

“So you’re admitting that we are soulmates.” 

“Of course, we’re fucking soulmates,” Eddie says, his voice a little loud, squeeking like it used to when they were kids and he got embaressed, “What else knows me like you do? Who else’s words are my fucking skin?”

Maybe the distance is a good thing.

If only so Eddie can’t see the way the tears gather in Richie’s eyes, the way he has to tug his glasses off to rub at them until they burn. “I didn’t know you were getting married. Maybe I don’t know you at all. Maybe I never fucking did.” 

“Rich-”

“I used to wish you weren’t my soulmate,” Richie says before he can stop himself. “Used to wish for anyone else in the fucking world.”

He knows from Eddie’s sharp intake of breath that the words meant to hurt have been taken just that way. That it’s easier than admitting the truth of it all. 

“Fuck you.” 

There’s a beat of silence.

So long that it stretches.

And Richie can’t stop to tears, the way his breath catches, he knows no matter how much he tries to hide it that Eddie must hear it through the line. 

“I’m not going to your fucking wedding.” 

“I don’t want you to,” Eddie replies. “I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea.” 

“You’ve always been full of dumb as shit ideas.” 

There’s anger in their tones.

There’s no going back from this. 

“Drop dead, Richie.” 

“I just might.” 

“Fuck you.”

“No,  _ fuck  _ you.”

“You know what,” Eddie says, “I’m done with this. I’m done with all your bullshit. I’m going to be fucking happy with my fucking wife and you can stay lonely and miserable in LA for the rest of your fucking life for all I care.” 

“Yeah, you go fucking be-” 

“I fucked your mother.” 

The words, the sudden change, catching him so off guard that all Richie can manage to say is - “What?”

The line clicks dead. 

A dial tone greeting him. 

And all that anger, all that hurt and betrayal, seems to slip away at once, as his brain tries to wrap around it all. To process. More than the fact that his  _ soulmate  _ is getting married to someone else. That he’s lost the chance at someone he never really had a chance with in the first place.

And that the last words Eddie said before hanging up the phone are the very words burning into his arm. 

  
  


*

  
  


He nearly misses it. 

A voicemail. 

Months later.

On a date written out on a wedding invitation that he kept against his better judgement. 

A voice that shakes nervously through the line, but a voice that he would know anywhere. 

“Fuck, Richie, I don’t know if this works through a voicemail, why can’t you be home to pick up your fucking phone. I just keep thinking about you and… You started to say something right before I hung up and I… It sounded like the start of my words, and I don’t think it fucking counts but, fuck, fucking shit, Richie, I don’t want you to die. So I’m taking the words back, if you’re hearing this then this counts. You hear that God or whoever the fuck is in change of soulmates, it doesn’t fucking count.” 

Eddie’s voice shakes. A noise like the start of a sob.

Richie hates that after all this time, he still knows what Eddie sounds like when he’s trying not to cry. 

“Call me back, so I can say something else. Please. I love you, I don’t want to lose you. Call me fucking back, okay?”

*

He does a show in New York City.

After months of ignoring his agent’s insistence that NYC was the place to be, pushing for Boston shows instead. Anywhere else. Any city that didn’t have  _ him _ in it. 

But fate has a way.

Fate always does. 

Eddie’s there at the stage door, waits until the crowd of people that want to tell Richie how funny he is finally thin, and greets him in a way that is so familiar that it aches, “Your jokes still fucking suck.” 

There’s a wedding band on his finger.

Richie refuses to let his gaze linger on it. 

“You’re buying me a drink,” Richie tells him. “But you have to promise that it won’t end up like  _ last time _ . I’m not about to be a fucking homewrecker.” 

“Fuck you,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling.

Richie’s missed that smile.

It’s easy to fall into a pattern.

Just like old times. 

“Then again, that might be good material,” Richie says. “On second thought, I would love to be a homewrecker.” 

“I’ll buy you a drink if you shut your fucking mouth.”

“Deal.” 

*

He gets the call.

Twenty-seven years later.

Because there are some things stronger than oaths. 

He sits there in that restaurant, surrounded by all their old friends, and tries to focus on catching up on old times, and making plans to face their own personal demon. And not on the space between him and his fucking  _ soulmate _ . 

He wonders if the rest of them notice.

The way he and Eddie seem to stare at each other just a little bit too much longer than normal. 

He should be over this by now. 

Why can’t his fucking soul take the hint?

*

They’re in the parking lot, listening to Bev on the speaker phone and he knew, a part of them all knew the second that they saw the fortune cookies spell it out, but hearing it makes it all so much worse.

He died in the  _ bath _ .

Took his life instead of coming back here to this godforsaken town and Richie can’t blame him.

Not really. 

He feels sick, his stomach turning, and for a second all he can remember is those words that he had helped Stan read off of his shoulder all those years ago. 

A gentle reminder not to leave the water running. 

No doubt the last words his wife had ever said to him. 

“I’m getting out of this fucking town.” 

*

There’s a bandage on Eddie’s cheek, and Richie can’t help the panicked sort of worry that takes home in his chest. Thinking about how he had been running away right before this happened. How they’ve both spent so long trying to run away, but there was no more running anymore.

They were running into danger.

And it made sense to feel a little afraid.

A little nervous. 

“Just remember,” Richie says, meaning it as a joke almost, an attempt to lighten the nervous tension. “As long as you don’t say my fucking words we can’t die. That’s the rules.” 

Eddie’s laugh is weak. But his hand tightens on Richie’s arm for a moment, and Richie slides his old hand down to Eddie’s hip, hoping that he can somehow feel the same grounding pressure though all the layers between them. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if  _ It  _ could circumvent fate,” Eddie says, nervousness seeping through their bond. 

“Don’t say that,” Richie counter. “This is the one thing keeping me going.” 

“Rich-”

“I can’t lose you.” 

He wishes that this could be easier. That he could give into the impulse and kiss Eddie, like it was the very first time all over again, like it very well might be their last chance to. He tries and pretends for a moment that this all could be real. That he could be normal and the happily ever afters could exist for people like them. 

Later.

They’ll be time for that later. 

For now, he makes a silent vow to himself that no matter what happens. He’s going to make sure his  _ soulmate  _ survives all of this. 

Eddie pulls away slowly, the rest of the losers moving and ready to go inside, but not before he says, in a low voice that only Richie can hear. “I can’t lose you either.” 

*

He knows.

Even before Eddie says the words.

That there’s no recovering from this.

Despite every part of him hoping otherwise. 

“Richie?” 

“What? What’s up, buddy?”

“I fucked your mother.” 

He feels it.

Not the ache that he’s grown familiar with over all the years and the distance between them.

But something more.

Something so much fuckng worse.

His heart breaking, his soul shattering into bits and pieces.

There’s nothing that  _ It  _ could do to him that could compare to this, to losing his soulmate, to watching as the life slips out from his eyes, as he gives up on the will to fight. He’s always hated the idea of soulmates, of not knowing for sure right until the very end. 

It’s not fair.

It’s never been fucking fair. 

“Take it back,” he whispers, even as the fingers in his hand already begin to loosen their grip, even as the emptiness begins to spread from the place inside of his chest. “You have to take it back, you have to say something else, you can’t just- I can’t lose you.” 

  
  


*

He stares at the letters into the bridge.

Letters he called years ago.

When he first started to figure out what that warm feeling in his chest meant.

A feeling that’s gone forever now. 

Tries not to cry anymore, he’s cried enough in this godforsaken town. 

And speaks softly, to a man that is no longer there to hear him - “You know this whole soulmate thing is pretty fucked up when you really think about it.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> please be my friend on twitter and talk about the sad clown movie with me: [ plinys ](twitter.com/plinys)


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